Athena's Spear
by Color Me Gray
Summary: Thought is like a sharp spear in the hands of the wise, and the fate of the world may hang precariously on one woman’s ability to see the truth in seventy years of treachery. MM? CHAPTER TWO: If Wishes Were Wings
1. Prologue: Certainty in Chaos

Have you ever stopped to consider Professor McGonagall? I mean, really sat down and thought about some of the odd facets of her character that shine through in the most unlikely of moments?

Why, for instance, is she such a devoted Quidditch fan?

What is it about Sibyll Trelawney that pushes her buttons?

And where on God's good green earth (muggle or magical) does a girl get a tartan bathrobe, anyway?

If you've always harbored a secret curiosity, then perhaps you will find your long awaited answers in these pages. And if you've never wondered, perhaps you should start. After all, thought is 'like a sharp spear in the hands of the wise'. And who knows? The fate of the world may someday hang balanced on the tip of **Athena's Spear.**

**Φ**

**Prologue: Certainty in Chaos**

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Delicate flakes of snow caressed the ancient window panes of Hogwart's highest tower. Tiny drifts began to settle on the sill, sighing softly like a well placed swish of the wand. Outside, the sun had just begun to peer sleepily over the horizon. Soft though it was, the light reflected brightly on the silvery grounds and the pewter surface of the frozen lake, illuminating the world with a forced sort of cheerfulness.

Flocks of starlings watched the proceedings sedately from their icy roosts today, and somewhere deep in the forbidden forest the centaurs would be lighting their mystic fires to welcome the first snowfall. The right and natural order of things had been upheld, for summer had given way to autumn, and autumn to winter. Life seemed quite determined to continue on, regardless of petty human struggles.

A tall, lean woman watched the morning unfold its splendor in silence. She had grown pale in these last few months. Her smiles were fewer and her cheeks more gaunt. Her bones ached with the weight of a far heavier burden than her youthful seventy one years.

Yet she had assumed the role that was hers to take, and had done it with efficiency and dignity. Surely no one could ask for anything more?

"If anyone expects more than this, then they're blithering imbeciles to begin with." Thought Minerva McGonagall in the privacy of her own head.

The sun rose and the castle woke from its slumber. Breakfast appeared at the high table. The children ate and drank and talked with their usual gusto. Paperwork and interviews were successfully completed. Students were chastised and comforted. Life went on.

The few quiet moments after tea found her at the same old post by the window watching the heart beat of Hogwarts laid out under the chilly December afternoon sky.

Children frolicked in the fresh downfall, as generations of young witches and wizards had done before them, and would continue to do for as long as the earth kept at its turning. It was not that they were unaware of the immanent doom in every newspaper and on every breath, but for a few brief hours they consciously chose to ignore it and delight in their own tiny miracles.

Oh, to be young again!

At times like this, she sometimes wondered how very different life might have been if she had only made better choices. Her practical, no-nonsense side told her that she was a ninny to spend valuable time mulling over might-have-beens. Thankfully, her practical side could not win every internal argument.

It was painful to think about her youthful stupidity, but worth the effort. Egil McGonagall had been very fond of old adages, and a select few had followed his youngest daughter into her adult life. 'Learn from the past, lest you repeat your failures.' was a maxim that Minerva had learned the hard way at the tender age of nineteen. In fact, it could almost be said to be a bit of a theme in her life. Especially in regards to one very special individual…

She shook her head sadly at the thought. Daydreams would not wash the laundry. She could not afford any more mistakes, not when so much depended on her memories and her instincts. Though the first had begun to dull faintly as she passed into middle age, the second had been honed to razor sharpness on the long road she had walked this far.

"I won't waste it this time." She said, leaning a tired brow upon the cool window and watching the world slip past. "I won't let you down, old friend."

As she turned back to face the terrifying stone bowl that rested on her desk, Minerva could feel the sunset on her back. She smiled in spite of her anxiety.

It was a familiar comfort, this faithful rising and setting of the sun. Since childhood, she had taken a small secret measure of strength from knowing that there were indeed a few incorruptible, unwavering constants in the world.

Logic could be overturned, guesses could be proven wrong, people could surprise you and life could end at any moment, but the sun would still come up every morning and go down every night.

Yes, she decided, it was comforting to know.

And with that, Minerva McGonagall sat down to confront seventy years of lies and a pensive full of unanswered questions. When she fell through the other side of consciousness, she hardly knew where she was.

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**Authoress's Notes: **Ok, this is a prologue, and meant to be short. The entire story probably won't exceed ten or so chapters, but the ideas will definitely be original! Enjoy, and as always, your comments are MORE than welcome!


	2. If Wishes Were Wings

**Athena's Spear**

**Φ**

**Chapter Two: If Wishes Were Wings**

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Her father had never let his children touch the sacred relic without dire need and after his death Minerva had given it to a friend to be rid of it. She disliked admitting such foolish weakness, but she had harbored an irrational fear of the rune covered bowl since girlhood.

Besides, it was an odd feeling, being drawn into a pensive.

Though she had done this many times in the past seventy years, Professor McGonagall highly doubted that she would ever develop a tolerance for the sensation. It was worse than the time she had fallen from her … no, no time to think of that now. There was no time to think of anything at all for that matter. She was falling fast and furious, falling into endlessness, into the depths of memory and time themselves.

"Certainly not a pleasant phenomenon." She snorted with irritation as fell through a column of hot boiler steam.

She was flopped unceremoniously onto platform 9 and ¾'s without any further ado, and became no more than a spectator in the game of a life she had lived nearly a century ago.

A little ways down the platform, a family could be seen saying their goodbyes.

"Yes, mum, I promise I'll take care of ickle Birde." A large young man promised his mother as she embraced him fondly. "We wouldn't want her to fly off and get lost now, would we?"

The little bird in question was in fact a gangly, string bean of a child with a black, curly bun. With disproportionately large round spectacles perched atop her beakish nose, she gave the uncanny impression of a disgruntled bird of prey.

She shot her older brother a glare that could have shifted glaciers.

The older witch gasped and appeared about ready to have conniptions. "Fergus Turnan McGonagall! If I hear one whisper of a hint that you've gone and transfigured your sister again, I … I … I shall speak to your father on the matter!"

"Hmph." Added the bird.

At this, her mother swirled around to face her. "And you! I want to hear that you were nothing but a perfect young lady. I shall be very disappointed if I find that you have been near those dreadful brooms again, and you shant like the consequences." The respectable woman finally got a hold of herself, much to her daughter's relief, and took on a more gentle tone. "Oh Minerva, you will be careful, won't you?"

Mr. McGonagall quietly clapped a bearlike hand on his son's shoulder while his wife was distracted. "Let the owlet test out her own wings, Fergus. She can take care of herself, I imagine."

Fergie shook his head and chuckled. "I have no doubt."

"Besides son, I think you will have your hands full enough with N.E.W.T.S. this, year, won't you?"

"Golly dad, you're as bad as mum some days! I'll do my best, just like always."

The older man frowned. "Your best is not always what it could be, young man."

Just then, the train whistle gave a shrill blast. Fergus merely shook his father's hand and quickly hefted his sister's things onto the scarlet Hogwarts Express while their mother tucked one last lace handkerchief into her daughter's pocket. Then children of all sizes and shapes were hustled aboard as they bade farewell to their childhoods and slowly chugged off down the tracks of their new lives.

**Φ**

Minerva Bridgette McGonagall trudged down the tiny isle of the Hogwarts Express as though marching to a funeral dirge.

She felt her heart sinking and her trunk growing heavier with every step. There had not been a single compartment that wanted her so far, and she was nearly to the end of the fifth car!

Minerva often found herself unable to relate to her peers and at a loss for companionship, save that of her brothers. But Thales had graduated two years ago, and Fergie was obviously too busy with one of his lady friends to be bothered with 'the little bird'. She knew a few girls on the train from primary school and though none of them liked to read or ride or knew a bishop from a pawn (making them infinitely boring and difficult to relate to) she would have gladly sat with Mirabella Moon or even Greta Knott if it meant some sort of human contact. They, on the other hand, had not been interested.

Not for the first time in her young life, she wished that her father had allowed her to keep a pet. A faithful owl or kneazle would surely keep her company in this, her darkest hour of need. But whenever she had asked, father had simply replied with the same frustrating and irrefutable answers: "A pet is impractical, owlet. What logical purpose does it serve? When would you find the time away from your studies to care for the creature?"

Her father's logic was always infallible, and what would she have told him? That she was lonely?

He would have replied that she was being silly, that she had an entire house full of a family that cared for her. He probably would have offered to set down his reports for the Ministry and play a game of chess, if she liked. Though she did enjoy a good game of chess (preferably with Fergie or Thales, whom she stood some small chance of beating) she knew that there was sometimes more to life than logical solutions.

She, however, did not want to be the one to explain this to her father.

With a frustrated sigh, Minerva stumbled upon an empty compartment. She struggled to fit her trunk up on the rack and vehemently wished that her mother did not pack so much. It just wasn't practical!

After all, a girl only needed so many pairs of white gloves, gauzy handkerchiefs, and embroidered socks. No matter how many times Minerva tried to point this out using her father's Ravenclaw reasoning, mum simply nodded in her own sweet, caring Hufflepuff way and went on with stuffing the trunk to overflowing. When June McGonagall was done, she kindly repeated an oft heard explanation of the rules of decorum that governed a polite young lady of society, and told her daughter that talking back to your mother was 'just not done'.

On days like that, home could be a frustrating place, for there were many things that 'weren't done'. One did not ignore company (even if said company was rude), one did not fight with the boys at Primary, and one certainly didn't dream of playing on a Quidditch team.

Minerva found that none of these rules ought to be applied to her. She was excited to leave behind her mother's old fashioned attitudes and her father's unanswerable arguments. Still, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was a bit intimidating. She was glad that she would have family there, even if it was only Fergie.

Her brother was a wonderful boy and she adored him, but he was so very opposite of herself. She loved books and getting good marks, where he enjoyed the company of his friends and flings, flashing his charming smile wherever he went. Needless to say, he would lay down his life for her at the drop of a hat, but Fergie was after all … well, he was Fergie. It was no surprise that Minerva would rather it were Thales coming to school with her instead. She would have been elated to have any friends at all there.

"If wishes were wings, we would all fly about like Hippogryphs." She muttered one of her father's innumerable adages to herself, trying to be sensible.

"Did you mention Hippogryphs?" Asked a quiet voice behind her.

Minerva nearly jumped off her seat when she turned and found herself face to face with a lad about her age. He was small and disturbingly pretty for a boy with a bright patch of sunny yellow hair.

"Merlin! You startled me!"

"Sorry." He whispered sheepishly, staring down at his untied shoelaces. "Didn't mean ta'."

Minerva was not about to wait for the mouse-like creature to introduce himself. They would probably be there until graduation that way.

"My name is Minerva." She said briskly and proffered her hand for him to shake. "Who are you?"

"M'name's Alastor. Nice to make your acquaintance." He shook her hand forcefully and grinned a lopsided little grin.

Just then, several other boys their age burst past the open door. One of them spotted Alastor just as she looked up.

"This one, you lot! He's in here."

All five boys crowded into the compartment with various looks of diabolical delight on their faces. She knew most of them from Primary, and immediately guessed why little Alastor had come into her compartment.

She would have none of it.

"Out, Lestrange."

"Why Minerva, how rude." The snide brunette retorted, setting his books on her seat. Unfortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Lestrange were her parents' good friends, so their son knew her weaknesses all too well. "Is that any way for a young lady to greet a guest in her compartment?"

"You weren't invited in to begin with, you troll."

"No, now that you mention it, I don't recall you having sent one by owl. I'm sure it was an oversight on your part, and that you are very, very sorry."

"I'm not. Get out."

"Tsk, tsk, such manners. I'm sure mummy would hate to hear of it."

"Yes, and I'm sure your mother would hate to learn that she was deluded in her post-partum anxiety at St. Mungo's into believing that a backwards, ill mannered pile of dragon dung was actually her offspring." The boys looked at her blankly. "But sometimes we don't tell our mothers things that they ought to hear, now do we Randy?"

It took some of the boys a few moments to work out what she'd said, and the others hooted in quiet laughter like great satanic owls. Randolf Lestrange looked ready to throw down his wand and start a row.

Minerva was not afraid. He was a big fellow and nearly came up to her chin, but she'd trounced him before and she'd do it again too. Truth be told, she was rather looking forward to it but right now she simply wanted them to leave.

"Get out, Lestrange, or I'll find a prefect."

"By all means, Minerva. Please, go find a prefect and let us get back to our business with the cripple here."

"On second thought, I suppose I don't need a prefect. I could do some decidedly nastier things to you myself."

"Is that so? Somehow I just don't believe that you have it in you. Mummy's probably trained all of that out of you by now, hasn't she?"

She didn't know what they meant calling Alastor a cripple, but she had had enough. While she kept them busy trading insults, Minerva whipped out her wand behind her back and concentrated on the nearest small object she could find without anyone noticing.

In this case, it was one of Lestrange's school books.

With a spell she'd come up with last year to ward off some of Fergie's most annoying 'skirts', she quietly transfigured the harmless looking book.

"At least my parents don't let me associate with mudblood cripples. Honestly Minerva, you might as well go down and socialize with the house elves. At least the house elves know their place in the world: licking the dirt off our heels."

"Quite right, old boy." Chimed in Charlus Potter. "You know, he looks about the right size for an old pillow case of mine…"

At that moment, three things happened simultaneously. Alastor punched Potter square in the nose, Minerva released her creation, and the compartment door slid open.

It was chaos.

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**Authoress's Notes: **So, predictions anyone? I'll tell you right off the bat that this story will not focus soley on Minerva's school experiences, but rather skip through them and touch on important memories just like the rest of her life. It may end up a bit longer than ten chapters after all, but not too much. Do ya'll have any thoughts on my interpretations of Alastor or Minerva? And don't worry, that important character that everyone is anticipating will show up next chapter…

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**Leta McGotor**- I think you'll enjoy the part about the bathrobe. It's really quite ingenious, if I do say so myself. I hope you continue to read and enjoy.

**Possum- **Here's Moody! Just not the way you probably are used to him! I can't tell you anything about Quidditch or Filtch, that would be cheating, you schemer! You will just have to be patient and histericly ponder my sadistic cliffhangers with the rest of us… haha!

**HarryPotterMagic-** Thanks so much dear. I hope you like the story now that its started up.


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